


Broken Man

by Enid_Black



Series: Agent Barnes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt, PTSD, Recovery, a bit of comfort, no really it's angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enid_Black/pseuds/Enid_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 1991, Hydra sends The Winter Soldier to kill Howard Stark. </p><p>James Buchanan Barnes disagrees</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, two fics in two days, that's rich from me!! Don't get used to this -____-'
> 
> This is chronologically the first fic in the Agent Barnes 'verse (and yes, it became a 'verse... ), even if I wrote it after "A nice thing about the Future". These plot bunnies are insistent to be written. I don't know what else I'll write, but I'd be happy to be prompted, I might take a few!

The Asset had been taken out of the cryo-chamber the day before (they never got him out more than 24 hours before a mission, it was way too risky), instructed, equipped and sent in a solo mission to kill two targets, a man and a woman, 70 and 55 years old. The orders were to fake an accident, observe its unfolding and securing its success, and then report to his handlers. He had rigged the car brakes with a device that would activate and break them once the car reached optimum speed and was at the right place. The only action required of him, if the plan went as it should, was to activate it when the car left. That was why the Winter Soldier was laying on the roof of a building near the residence of the targets, ready to flip a switch and start the countdown to their deaths. He saw their butler open the doors and then took sight for the first time of the targets through the scope of the rifle. The Asset looked at the man and blinked, a younger version of him superimposing to the present face, making him slightly dizzy (he didn’t know it was called feeling dizzy, he just reported an abnormal status). He kept looking at the man while he talked with the butler and the other target (the wife), and he wasn’t that far that he couldn’t, thanks to his enhance sensed, hear at least their voices, and then the man laughed earthly at something the woman said. For a moment, everything tilted the wrong way in his mind, and the laughter brought a memory (something that shouldn’t have been possible, assets, things, weapons don’t have _memories_ ) to his mind. 

 

_Howard Stark was slouched on a chair, laughing himself silly, and kept pointing at Steve, who had just walked into the lab, like he was the most hilarious thing of the world. Steve’s expression was exasperated, with a look of fake disdain in his eyes. From the laugher-chopped words of the scientist, he had gathered that Bucky, his best friend Bucky, had just told Howard Stark about their day at Coney Island. He turned towards the sergeant with his usual slight frown._  
 _“Bucky, don’t tell me you told him about the Cyclone!”_  
 _Howard started laughing even harder and that set both Bucky and Steve off, and the room resounded of stupid giggles. Steve sat down by the sniper and leaned into Bucky’s chest, the Sergeant draping his arms around him, still amused._

 

The Winter Soldier shook his head violently, trying to clean up his train of thoughts, trying to remember the details of his mission. He looked into the scope again and saw that Howard was alone. His wife had gone back inside, he hadn’t even noticed when, lost in the memory as he had been, and they hadn’t left yet. The scientist smiled, his face tilted upwards, and the man on the roof felt his brain shatter again. From the outside, he would seem stock still, posed to kill, but his eyes, hidden behind the black goggles, widened as images and voices started to slide into his mind. He scrambled from the rifle, bringing his hands up to unfasten the goggles and the damn muzzle, dry-heaving in the cold air of December. He laid on his back, breathing heavily, waiting for the storm in his head to clear, for the dizziness to pass. A face kept appearing in front of his eyes, at first on a sickly body, then with a fitter one. What was most confusing for the Asset, though, were the emotions that those images brought with them. Joy, worry, love, kindness, anger, things that he hadn’t been allowed to feel for so long that the emotion felt both too strong, and too far away, bringing back the feeling of dizziness, multiplied tenfold. The day was clear, if cold, a terse December day, and the Winter Soldier looked at the blue sky, remembering eyes of the same shade, and for the first time in almost fifty years he felt the burning sting of tears in his eyes. He gritted his teeth, and with a last murmur of Steve he passed out. 

 

James Barnes woke up not an hour later. He stood in a hurry, stumbling on his feet, and dashed to the rifle. Howard and his wife had left, and he frantically checked the control panel of the device he had installed on the car. It was still inactive. He let a single choking sob of relief escape his mouth, but then he realized that he couldn’t in any fucking way allow those damn Russians or Hydra or whatever they were (a memory of Zola and how he had got his metal arm skimmed the surface of his mind and he forced it down before retching again). He packed the rifle, the control panel, and pocketed muzzle and goggles, choosing not to put them on again. Then he tried to regroup. He was in New York, and at least he had the advantage of the territory, he didn’t know what the year (Howard had seemed so much older than when they had fought together), but he knew how not to be found. He descended from the building and hid nearby the Stark residence. He had mission, but his handlers wouldn’t be aware, until the following day, of his lack of return. Stark hadn’t taken any big luggage with him, so he assumed (he hoped) that he would come back home. He tried, in those hours, to make order in his memories, but he didn’t want to get lost in them, so he just skimmed the surface. He choked when he remembered the paper they had shown him, announcing Captain America’s sacrifice in big, bold black letters in the main header. _Steve… Steve wasn’t there anymore…_ He stomped on the thought, stomped on the tears and on the sensation of utter loss, and resolved to wait for Stark. He knew that he had done horrible, horrible things in his past, and at the very least he would have to pay for them. 

It was late night when the car came back with Howard and his wife. She got off the car, telling her husband something, and entered the glass doors. Howard stood outside, leaving the car to be parked by his butler when he came back from helping the woman inside. When the scientist was finally alone, Bucky found himself due for a surprise.

“I know that you’re watching me. Whoever you are, I saw you this morning. I found the device on the car. Now, if you want to kill me, I’d at least want the honor to see my murderer in the face, and I’d rather not to leave my son without a mother.” He said, calmly.  
James drew a ragged breath. He left every item behind, approaching the man with both hands raised, keeping his head down, his longish hair shadowing his face, still covered in tear-tracks. Howard looked at him strangely, revealing the gun he had kept in the pocket until then.

“Well, that was quick.” Stark commented, looking warily at the figure that was coming towards him. Barnes stopped at ten feet from the scientist and tried to breathe. He didn’t know what to say. “Well? You wanted to kill me and now what? Are you surrendering?” Howard asked. It was easier to answer to questions, James thought.

“Yes. I am surrendering, Howard.” He said, his voice scratchy from being barely used (his handlers kept him muzzled for a reason). The former Sergeant dared looking at the man in front of him. Howard Stark was shocked. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” he asked, incredulous. James’ eyes stung with tears.

“I’m not sure I still deserve to be called that.” He said, the voice so very slightly trembling. “I was sent here to kill you.” He confessed. Stark regarded him with a frown.

“Explain yourself.” He demanded. James emitted a strangled and bitter laugh.

“I wish I could. One moment I had you and your wife in my sight, ready to activate the device on the car to simulate a deathly accident, the following one I was in a lab in London looking at you laughing about a story I had told. Howard, really, I don’t know. They took me back… I think I fell from a train, probably you know what happened better than me. They gave me _this_ ,” he nodded at his left arm with unconcealed disgust, “and they used me for their deeds.” He said. Barnes fell on his knees, lowering his head. “And then I remembered you and Steve, and I don’t even know what year it is, or how I know _that Steve is dead…_ ” at this, James broke down completely and started crying openly. Howard lowered the gun, giving it to the butler, who had appeared from the door, and went to the kneeling man.

“Barnes… listen to me, you’re not making much sense, but I think I got the gist. If what you say is right, I can’t let you in my house, you understand? I need to bring you in a more secure place. We need to go to S.H.I.E.L.D., all right pal? I’m calling Peggy too, she’ll be happy to see you, ok?” James nodded. Howard stood on his right side, and helped him on his feet, guiding him to the car that had been left there. The distraught man crumbled on the front passenger seat, waiting for Howard to get in. He was blinking blindly, feeling drained. The noise made by the door on the driver side closing took him almost by surprise. “I’ve let Peggy know that we are going to the HQ and I told her to meet us there. I didn’t disclose your presence by phone, Barnes.” He assured. “I’m not stupid, as you know, don’t worry. The HQ is a few minutes from here, we’ll be there soon.”

The ride passed in silence, James was trying to normalize his breathing, memories of when he had to do it to help Steve overcome an asthma attack festering his head. All too soon, the car stopped in an underground parking lot and Howard was on his side, helping him through the door. 

“Let’s go to Peggy’s office, it should be quiet enough. For now.” He said, more to himself than to the shadow of a man that he was guiding like a docile dog. An elevator ride and a short, mercifully desert corridor later, Howard was knocking on Peggy’s door. He kept Barnes on the side less visible from the room and Director Carter opened it. She was now an elderly woman of more or less 70 years old, and still in the field, even if she had been thinking about retirement lately. 

“What happened, Howard, for you to bring me here at this ungodly hour?” she asked, letting the man inside.

“Peggy, please, sit down.” The man pleaded, keeping Barnes in the shadow without closing the door. The only light in the office was the one at the desk, where Peggy had gone to sit. 

“You’re always so melodramatic. Please, may I now know what happened?” She prompted again, looking at him with a mix of exasperation and amusement like this was part of the their daily routine. Well, it was.

“Today there was an attempt to kill me and Maria, Peggy. I noticed someone was watching us from the roof of a palace nearby and then I found a device on the car that would have cut my brakes, probably when I’d be driving in the worst place possible.” Peggy covered her mouth with a trembling hand.

“This is terrible, Howard, we have to warn Nick and…” she started.

“I’m not finished, Pegs. There’s more. Tonight, when we came home, the same person was there, only… only he came forth and confessed the attempt and… Peggy, there’s not easy way to tell it, you have to see him.” He gestured at the door and James went forward, emerging from the shadows that had hid him until then.

“Are you mad? You brought him here, he could…” the words died on her tongue when the light of the lamp hit dark hair and blue eyes, an unmistakable nose and lips bent in such a frown that it seemed impossible that they had known laughter, “… oh my God… _James_ …” she said, awed. She was still sitting on the desk, not daring to get on her feet. “My God, how is it possible, _James Barnes_.” She reiterated, breathlessly. Howard stood nearby, ready to intervene. The dark clothed man covered the distance between him and Peggy in slow steps, and when he arrived in front of her, he fell to his knees again. 

“Ma’am,” he said, his voice broken beyond recognition. Carter sled to the ground with careful attention and brought her arms around the kneeling frame. James stiffened at the beginning and then recognized the hug for what it was: a gesture of affection. He trembled in her arms, unmoving, letting Peggy coo at him as he were a child. Howard, on his side, sat on the floor beside them and told her the few things that he had gathered from Barnes’ halting explanation. James was relieved that he couldn’t see the emotions passing on that now frail face. He didn’t know how long it lasted, but in the end he felt two sets of hands prompting him upright. His eyes were dry, if puffy, when Margaret Carter’s fragile hands cupped his face.

“Listen to me, James, we have to ensure your safety and the one of everyone here. This is the plan: we have security cells in here, I want to lead you to one of those. I will warn specific agents who have a working background for this situation: our first priority is making you safe. This includes a complete debrief from you and for you.” She said to him, looking him straight in his eyes. James nodded.

“I know. I have committed many crimes in these years, Peggy, I just want you to believe me when I say that I hadn’t any idea of what I was doing, it’s like… it’s like seeing those events in a movie: I remember them but they weren’t my ideas…” he struggled to get this out.

“Hush, boy.” She said, “this is not the first case of brainwashing we see.” She assured him. Then her eyes softened and a tear slid down her face. “I’m so happy to see you, James, you have no idea.” She told him, and then she embraced him properly. James enveloped her with only his right arm, he didn’t dare using the metal one. “Come on, let’s bring you where you can rest. They won’t find you here, and you’ll be protected, ok?” she added. 

Peggy and Howard led him to a security cell and helped him take off the body armor and every weapon. They gave him warm clothes with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo and James insisted on detaching his left arm because he didn’t feel safe with it on. Howard promised to look it up immediately. Then, he was closed in a small but warm cell, and he was strangely grateful, both for the security and the solitude. Exhausted, he laid on the cot and covered with the quilts Peggy had insisted to give him, and fell into a fitful sleep, the first that hadn’t happen in a cryo-genic chamber in a long, long time.


	2. March 10th, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James' first birthday out of Hydra's control.
> 
> The chapter is officially the second, in chronological order ^^, but for the moment I'll put it as last chapter :D.
> 
> My Agent Barnes Plot Bunnies BIT HARD on this, I should be working, but they insisted and I had to write it!
> 
> My usual thanks to NepturnalHarianne as my faithful Beta!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note for a hint of self loathing ^^.

James woke up with the feeling that he should remember something specific about that day, but didn’t. He looked at the calendar: the date was March 10th, 1992. He tried searching his memory but nothing came to him. It wasn’t unusual. He was only three months in his de-programming, still shaking off Hydra’s control and his memory was full of holes. He leaned on his right arm to get up to a sitting position. The lack of a left arm should have bothered him more maybe, but except for being a bit lopsided, he felt a lot better without that particular arm. He turned on the bed sideways, he put his bare feet on the cold floor, and passed his hand through his hair, pulling at a few knots and waking himself up completely in the process. His eyes fell on the makeshift bedside table and on the alarm clock: 6:00 am blinked at him. His dreams had woken him a couple of times that night. The first one, a nightmare about Hydra’s conditioning. He would have to talk with his therapist about that. Not something he looked forward to. The second was a memory from before the war. He dreamt of Steve, smiling at him and saying… something. He didn’t remember what, yet. Barnes almost thought that the second dream had hurt more than the nightmare.  
He shook his head and stood. He went to the corner of the room partially shielded from the view of the mirror on the wall with the door, where relieved himself and washed his face. Maybe today he could ask Barton or Romanoff if he could shave, it had been four days. He hadn’t felt safe with blades in the days before, but that morning he felt like he could handle a safety razor. Or maybe he just couldn’t stand the scruff anymore. 

He had just begun to wonder whether he might try to ask when someone would come, when he heard the buzz that announced the door opening and Natasha appeared on the threshold.

“Good morning, Barnes, how are you today?” she asked, the same as every morning, with a small smirk and bringing a tray with his breakfast on it.

“Good morning Agent Romanoff. Not so bad, a bit annoyed by the scruff. Do you think I could shave, today?” he said, sitting at the small table and digging in the breakfast: at least the food was good; better than the shakes Hydra gave him, better than the MREs during war. He tried not to think about the meals before the war, especially the ones from his childhood. 

“I think so. I know you might have visits today, so it’s a good idea.” She said, as she hadn’t noticed him lost in thought. She didn’t mention it, though.

“Howard or Peggy?” he asked, half chewing still. Natasha made a face at him and he looked down sheepish. 

“Don’t really know.” She lied. James knew that sometimes she didn’t tell him everything, just enough for him not to panic. He didn’t resent her.  
In any case, after his breakfast she kept her promise and helped him shave. He handled the safety razor (it still didn’t feel right to have people wielding weapons in his face) and she helped him pulling the skin in the tough spots. In the end, they finished quickly, and he huffed in relief. 

She left him in the enclosure changing into his day clothes (just another version of sweatpants and t-shirt with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo) and waited sitting on the bed, whistling idly. He wondered why she was whistling Happy Birthday for a moment, but didn’t dwell on it. 

The day passed as usual: debriefing, then lunch, then therapy and physical exercise. Today it seemed that his handler was Natasha and he wondered if Clint was in some sort of mission, but didn’t ask. He also wondered when his visit would come, they usually came in the afternoon. It was almost dinnertime and he was getting back from the gym, freshly showered, when he entered in his cell with Romanoff and stopped in his tracks just inside the door. Peggy Carter, Howard Stark and Clint were all there, smiling at him. On the table, what could only be considered a feast. 

“Here you are, dear.” Peggy said, her English accent evident even after all those years living in the U.S.A. She walked to him and made him bend to be able to kiss him on the cheek. “Happy birthday, James.” She said. 

“Happy birthday, man!” Clint echoed.

“Happy Birthday, Sarge.” Howard added, beckoning him inside. Natasha behind him just murmured, 

“Surprise.”

James was stock still. That was what he had forgotten? His own birthday?  
For a moment, he wanted to be angry, and everyone must have seen that on his face because they stood still, unmoving. Howard’s face fell for less than a second, but soon he got back his cheeky grin, so strange to see in an almost 75-year-old. Then James decided that he wouldn’t allow Hydra to take this from him too. He was back to his country, back to his own free will, his memory was full of holes but he had people that backed him up. He took a deep breath and decided to put to work the advice of his therapist and own the day. 

“Sorry… sorry. You took me by surprise.” He said, trying to relax.

“Well, that was the point!” Clint exclaimed, having evidently decided to avoid making a big fuss. “Well, not too much because none of us likes _big loud surprises_ , in the end, but… yeah!”

“Yes, I get it, Clint but… it’s just…” he debated for a moment with himself on how to continue the sentence, then huffed, “I didn’t remember it was my birthday. Not until you wished it to me.” He admitted. He needed to admit it. Luckily, he could do that with these people.

“Oh, James,” Peggy started, hugging him, “just more the excuse to celebrate it. Come on, sit down, we have dinner and cake.” She said. He enjoyed her hugs, she felt so fragile in his arm, but he knew how strong she still was. 

Natasha put her hands on his shoulders and guided him at the table. Howard clapped him on the back.

“Come on, Sarge, Mrs Jarvis sent her best pot roast and, trust me, that’s not to be missed.” James smiled weakly at him, but dug in the dish he was served. Everything was prepared so he would not need two hands, but other than that it was the same that everyone at the table was having, he had learnt to be just grateful about these things. 

At the end of the meal a small cake appeared on the table, with a candle on it.

“We couldn’t decide how many to put on them. You should be around 26/27 years old, but then, the count is not precise. And you don’t seem a 75-year-old. So we put a symbolic one.” Howard laughed.

“Even I would have had problems blowing 75 candles, I’m afraid.” He commented with a quick quivering smirk. He was getting emotional. 

“Make a wish, James.” Natasha said putting the cake in front of him. Barnes looked at them gratefully and blew the candle. He didn’t say what he had wished for, and they didn’t ask. 

“And now, gifts.” Peggy said cheerfully, reaching into her purse. 

“Hey, no, this is enough, you don’t have to…” he started. He didn’t feel like he deserved the dinner to begin with, but the gifts… 

“No complaining.” Peggy said in her no-nonsense voice. He shut up. “They’re all small things, don’t worry.”

Clint started.  
“Me first!” he said, and he gave Barnes an awkwardly packaged box. James thanked him and started opening it, putting it on the table and working one-handed. He heard a shutter and saw a grinning Natasha snapping photos with a small camera.

“Not the pictures too...” he tried to protest but Natasha shut another photo as a retort and he decided that it was wiser to just shut up.  
He managed to pull the wrap off and looked skeptical at the content of the box. He opened one can and a blue colored soft paste fell on the table. He took it in hand and started manipulating it.

“Ehm… Clint? Why did you give me wallpaper cleaner?” Clint look at him strangely.

“Dude, that’s Play-doh! It’s modelling clay!” he retorted. James didn’t seem convinced.

“My memory is the worst thing ever among us, what with forgetting my own birthday, but I’m pretty sure that we used that to clean the wallpaper in the apartment.” He answered. He didn’t specify who was included in the “we”. Howard and Peggy looked at each other and started laughing.

“Oh my gosh, he’s right!” Howard said.

“Before being used as modelling clay, the Play-doh was a wallpaper cleaner. Now, however, it’s a toy for children to learn to model and to improve fine hand motor skills.” She explained. Natasha shot more photos then, especially of Clint’s flabbergasted face and James’ grateful smile to Peggy.

“Oh, I see. Then, thank you Clint, I like the consistence already.”

“It’s good to blow off stress too, that’s why I thought it would be good for you.” He said, grinning.

“Thanks, pal, I really appreciate it.” James said, putting the dough back in the jar.

“Now mine!” Natasha said, giving him a neatly packed box. He thanked her and unwrapped that too. He was getting pretty good with one hand. He found a box full of candies. To be exact, Banana flavored candies. 

“You had a betrayed expression the first time you tasted a banana. I asked Mrs Carter, here, and she explained to me that in the ‘40s you had a different kind of banana. I researched a bit and discovered that the flavor they use in the candies has the same taste of the Gros Michel bananas you used to eat.” James grinned

“My gosh, I seem to have become a five year old: modelling clay and sweets. I’m not old enough to refuse, though. Thank you, Natasha.”

“You’re welcome, James.” 

“Now let’s see some grown up gift then, shall we?” Howard said. He handed James a bag. He opened it swiftly and discovered a lot of books. “I remember you loved science fiction, I brought you a selection of what came out in the last 45 or so years.” Barnes took out some of the books and read the titles. He was puzzled about electronic sheeps and so very curious about going hitch hiking in the galaxy, he wondered what desert dunes would have to do with science fiction and he thought that the 2001 didn’t seem so far to be really fiction. He was so curious about them all. “These are some of my favorites; I hope you’ll like them too.”

“Thank you, Howard, I needed something else to do.”

“And now, mine.” Peggy said softly. She handed him a packet, carefully wrapped like Natasha’s. He took it almost reverently and unwrapped it carefully. A frame, empty at that moment, was on top of a stack of something thicker than paper. He put the frame aside and looked at what was underneath. His breath hitched. His face stared at him from the top of the stack of photos. A much younger version of himself, smiling carefree, his left arm – his real arm - slung on Steve’s shoulders while the skinny version of his best friend in the world laughed at the camera, his right arm around his waist. A wayward tear escaped James’ eyes, and fell on his hand, barely missing the photo. “I collected your belonging when I came back from the war. And with Howard’s help, we kept them in storage. I thought you would want them back…” She said. The former Winter Soldier went through the photos. There were photos of him by himself, of Steve, Steve’s mother and of his family. He saw his sisters’ photo and whimpered. He put the pictures delicately on top of the other gifts and stood up, getting to Peggy and kneeling in front of her, who was still sitting.

“ _Thank you._ ” He said fervently, taking her hand. She brought the other on his cheek, wiping the tear that fell on the cheek.

“You’re welcome, James. Really.” He bent on her lap and no one mentioned his silent tears, while Peggy’s hand carded through his hair, making hushing sounds.

That night, when he was alone again, he debated for long on which photo put into the frame. He kept the others in the metal box Peggy had given him, safe and well cared for, but in the end the photo that went in the frame on his bedside table was the one with Steve and him. That night, he went to sleep watching the photo until his eyes closed on their own accord. That was his first (and for a certain period only) undisturbed night since before the war.


	3. June 15th, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not Bucky, not yet, maybe no more. He's not Sarge. He's not The Asset, thank goodness. Now he's James and he's doing what he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT GET USED TO THIS RHYTHM, it is absolutely insane. 
> 
> But here, another chapter ^^
> 
> Thanks to NepturnalHarianne that so patiently betaed the chapter ^^. I'm giving her a lot of work in these days!

Monday, June 15th, 1992. That was the date set for his return to normal life. What “normal” exactly entailed in this case, he wasn’t certain. How a Sergeant of the 107th, lab-rat for a Hydra crazy scientist, Russian assassin through constant brain-washing with a metal arm, who was going to live with an ex Russian spy and a former Circus performer, should define normalcy was a tough question. 

He still had ten days to spend inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, but he had passed the psych evaluation and they were just fixing the paperwork for his official return. It was early morning, and James laid on the bed, looking at the ceiling. He turned towards the nightstand, and took the photo that he kept there. It dated before the war, before Steve’s mother’s death. Rogers was still skinny and James was still Bucky and not Sarge, or Asset, or James. They were carefree and, even if Steve was often ill, they were happy. He skimmed his forefinger on Steve’s face, and pursued his lips. The past six months had been tough. After his breakdown on the night of the failed ( _thank goodness for small mercies, failed_ ) homicide of Howard Stark, he had been in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody and the following day he had met the Operative Agents assigned to him. His surprise in seeing Natalia Romanova (now Natasha Romanoff, aka The Black Widow) had been great. He remembered training her and going into missions with her. One of his few memories was that, once, he had recovered enough sense of himself (not quite like that night in December, but almost) to push her to go away, to run from Hydra, and had covered for her. He had been severely punished for it, but he’d been glad she was free. Natasha had been precious for his recovering: she knew what kind of psychological torture he had endured and, when he lapsed in Russian, she was able to guide him back. He would have spent years in the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, if not for her help. With her there was a young archer, and James had looked skeptically at Clint Barton (“Hawkeye, call me Hawkeye.” He had said) until he had seen him in action. And now, six months later, he was to be released in their custody. James was worried about going out in the world again, even with two baby sitters. He felt the need to do something to make amends for all the crimes Hydra had him committing. What that something would be was still an open question.

His musings were interrupted by the buzz on his room/cell. There was no obligation for them to warn him of their arrival, and he wasn’t even supposed to have photos in there, so he counted that with the small things that Howard and Peggy had put up (implemented by Natasha and Clint) to make him more comfortable. Not that he felt he deserved it, but he was grateful. He sat up on the bed, the door opened and four people came into the cell. Three of them were well known to James, the fourth not so much, and he was bringing a big box in his hands.

“Popsicle! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you! The old man here never stops talking about you, and you did bring a piece of interesting Soviet junk with you, so, thank you!” These words were exclaimed by a young man in his early twenties, with a goatee, messy hair and some kind of shirt with the name of a rock group (Clint had taken as a personal mission to bring him up to date with the music). 

“Anthony, I sometimes wonder how your brain can be so full of your ego that you always manage to push away the good manners your mother taught you.” Howard said, exasperated. The young man huffed and put the box on the small table by the wall opposite to the bed.

“Pa’, you’re one to talk.” He extended his right hand to James, then. “I’m Anthony Stark, call me Tony, nice to meet you, Popsicle.” He said. Howard  
rolled his eyes. James shook the proffered hand.

“Nice to meet you too. I’m James, by the way, not Popsicle. And, Howard? He’s your son, do I have to say more?” Tony shrugged and, before anyone could speak, he recovered his monologue. 

“Anyway! We’re not here just as sympathy visit, _Popsicle_ ,” he said, and James gave him a pointed look, “we are here with a wonderful, get-out-of-jail gift for you!” he said theatrically. Natasha rolled her eyes while Clint looked at him almost annoyed, but Tony gestured Barnes to go and open the box. James stood up and went to the table, opening the container that was on it. He raised the cover and looked inside. There was an arm. A metal arm, similar in shape to the one he had, but the similarities ended there. It seemed less threatening and more life-like. Howard put a hand on his right shoulder.

“I took the liberty to involve Tony because he’s very talented for his age,”

“Hey!” the younger Stark exclaimed.

“And I knew he would have interesting insights on this endeavor.” He continued like he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “This is only the first version, if you want to use it, your feedback will help us with the upgrades.” Howard said. 

“At least this doesn’t have a cyanide capsule scheduled to be released after 72 hours.” Tony added. James turned towards him in surprise. “You didn’t know? They really didn’t want you to do your own business, you were smart in detaching it immediately. I thought you knew.” He said, picking his nails with nonchalance.

“I didn’t.” James murmured. Shaking his head one last time, he reached inside the box with his right hand and took the new arm out.

“I managed to make it 30% lighter than the other. I think I can reduce the weight a bit more, because I think it will still strain your back otherwise, so you’ll have to take it off at night in order for your body to compensate.” Tony continued, pride evident in his voice. “It’s less strong than the other arm, just a bit more than a normal arm, but I want to improve that too. The sensibility isn’t great, but it’s still more than what the other one had, that piece of unrefined trash could only detect pressure. Now you’ll have more sensibility on the pressure and temperature sensors. You’ll have a higher dexterity with this, and I can’t wait to work on it more! I called it T. Arm Mach 1.” Barnes examined the arm from every angle and when he reached the shoulder he noticed that the drawing had been changed too. He turned to Howard.

“We didn’t really like the red star, so tacky.” He said, with partially forced humor. “I thought that the wings that were on your old service jacket would suit you more.” James put the arm back in the box and went to gently embrace the elder man.

“Thank you.” He murmured on his shoulder.

“You’re welcome.” Howard answered, patting his back. Nat and Clint were smiling indulgently.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, very touching indeed… Well, what do you wanna do?” Tony asked. James turned to the spies that had been silent until that moment.

“It’s ok, James, you can try it on, Fury and Director Carter approved it.” Nat said.

“Yeah, come on, Jimmy, try it on so I can teach you to use a bow.” Clint added, smiling. Tony was there with the arm in his hands, and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Come on, Popsicle, don’t melt on us now.” 

James glowered at the young man but decided to take up the offer. He discarded the shirt he was wearing and offered the empty shoulder. 

“Now, we copied the connecting point from the old model,” Howard said, “and we compared to the examinations charts the medical personnel did of your shoulder, so it should be...” the arm was slowly inserted in the artificial socket and clicked in place.

“Perfect!” Tony exclaimed. James waited few seconds and then he felt something akin to a tingling in that side. All eyes fixed on the arm, he tried to raise it and almost socked himself in the eye. “Whoa, Whoa, slow down tiger, come here, let me fix that.” Tony extracted a strange screwdriver from his pocket and opened a panel on the shoulder. He tinkered a bit and said, “Ok, try again, slowly.” 

Barnes tried again, and this time he managed to make the movement he wanted. It was still a bit jerky but at least he didn’t give himself a black eye. He looked at the two Starks. Tony was beaming, proud of himself for the good job, Howard had glistening eyes and they sported the same smile. James gave them a small smile of his own.

“Thank you… I don’t deserve this, thank you Howard, Tony.” He said with a small voice.

“Nothing of this bullshit, Jimmy!” Hawkeye said, “I know you itch to get a bit of practice in with the bow!” Natasha smacked him on the head. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, it was for fun.” Nat answered. “Look, James, you can refuse it, but I really think you should keep it.” She gave him a pointed look. 

“Ok, let’s do this. You’ve found yourself a Guinea pig for this arm, young Stark.” 

“Yeah! Great.” Tony tried to fist-bump Barnes and received a raised eyebrow.

“We’ll leave you now, James.” Natasha said, guiding the others outside, “See you soon.”

They said their goodbyes and exited, leaving Barnes alone again. 

James sat back on the bed, still looking at the metal arm in wonder. It was really lighter than the other one and he didn’t mind that it wasn’t just as strong, in fact, he preferred not risking to hurt someone with it. He got to the small mirror that was over the sink in the corner and looked at the wing that Tony and Howard had applied there. It wasn’t a drawing, but something more like a little pin, soldiered on the cover. He turned to the bed, to the photo he had left on it a few minutes before.

“I’m trying my best, Steve. I hope it will be enough.”


	4. Explosions aren't a good idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another installment in the Broken Man series.
> 
> And so many many thanks to Nepturnal_Harianne, my faithful and reliable Beta :D.

James stumbled weary eyed in the kitchen and squinted at the light coming from the windows. It had been a rough night: several indistinguishable nightmares had disturbed his sleep, not enough to wake him up, but enough for him to make him feel like he hadn’t slept at all.  
Clint was at the table, drinking a coffee and reading a comic (yes, a comic, James wasn’t sure, sometimes, if the man was 21 or 12). He looked at the former Winter Soldier and raised his eyebrows.

“Whoa, man, you look like shit. Rough night?” Barnes didn’t answer right away. He grunted something indistinguishable and just went to the coffee maker to pour himself a hefty mug of dark liquid. He didn’t feel awake enough to use full words until half of it was gone.

“You could say so,” he said, in the end. “An endless series of nightmares, they didn’t wake me up and I I don’t remember them, not really good to rest though.” Clint grimaced.

“Ugh, nasty.” He commented. James shrugged, refilling his empty mug and taking another sip of scalding coffee, and rummaging the kitchen for something to eat. “There are bagels on the counter.” Clint said. 

“Thanks, pal.” Barnes answered, taking one and chewing pensively on it. He had lived with the two spies for the last three months, keeping up with his therapy and training. He still didn’t feel up to join S.H.I.E.L.D., there were still too many flashbacks, where he could feel the cold of the cryo-chamber creeping up his fingers, his toes, leaving him to repeat his name and numbers again and again, like in Azzano, all those years ago (only, this time there was no Steve to save him). _It’s only nine months_ , Peggy had told him last time they’ve spoken, a few days before, _you are doing so well, James._ Sometimes he wasn’t so convinced, but he’d take her opinion over his for this.  
He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands.

“Do you have plans for today?” Clint asked, turning a page of the comic. He could see the garish colors reflected on the table’s finish. 

“Hmm? Nope, no plan.” he answered.

“Wanna come and shoot a bit? Maybe you could practice with the bow.” Clint suggested, putting down the comic book after making an ear on the page. “I mean, I’m going there and I don’t think you should be alone today.” He said very sincerely. He liked this in Clint.

“Sure, better than letting the nightmares pester me.” James grumbled.

“And we could go and eat something afterwards. It’ll do you good.” The archer added.

“If you say so. I’m going to have a shower and see if it wakes me up, then we can go, ok?”

“Great! So you can avoid drowning into your coffee and today I can finally show you the beauty of bows and arrows.” Clint grinned like a mad hatter and James thought once again that he seemed too young for this job.

In the end, after a quick and scalding shower, he donned the training suit S.H.I.E.L.D. had issued for him (he had requested long sleeves even for the summer weather, and a glove for his left arm) and hopped on Clint’s car, directed to the HQ shooting range.

“Today I want you to try the compound. Stark had a new one delivered last week and it’s freaking awesome.” Clint said, driving like an old man in New York’s traffic. James looked at the hyped man (boy? Is 21 enough to be considered a man? In the ‘30s, sure, but now?) beside him.

“Is it? What did Tony do to it?” he asked, somewhat warily.

“I didn’t even try to follow all his techno-babble, but it should be lighter, more powerful and he made new techno-arrows, so we could test them too.” He answered excitedly. James rolled his eyes:

“Is it safe? Tony _always_ says that, and something _always_ explodes”.

“Naa, man, don’t worry, it’s cool! He said that he tried it out this time and it works properly.”

Well, turns out: things can explode on the second trial too. 

 

James wasn’t expecting any explosion that day, though, and the hellish night had left him on the edge, more than usual. Thus, when Clint’s bow honest to god burst, he slipped. One moment he was in the shooting range, with a bow in his hands and taking aim, the following one he was on a train, a strange shield in one hand and a gun in the other (and both hands were made of flesh). An enormous, menacing hole on his right. A flash, a strong hit on the shield taking him down, down the hole, wallowing on a gaping precipice.

“Bucky!” Steve yelled, hanging on the side of the train. 

James scrambled away from his position, crawling in a corner, back to the nearest V of the wall. He brought his knees up to his chest and his hands (metal and flesh) on his head and started hyperventilating, fingers threading in his hair and pressing down, hard. He tried to call back all his therapy sessions, the coping mechanisms, but he couldn’t get his brain to hold on them long enough to make them work. He felt the cold of the wind, his hands hurting, reliving for the first time the whole memory (In a lucid corner of his mind he thought that he would have gladly done without that ever happening). Steve’s face looking at him, his hand outstretched, trying to get him. Then the loud _crank_ of the handlebar of the train breaking, his own terror, his own shout, calling for Steve. Steve’s yell, calling for him. He was falling, the gelid wind whistling loudly in his ears, heart pounding as the cold snowy rock came closer and closer, as fast as the train-wreck but horribly slow as his brain struggled to catch up, the impact would soon come and then- 

-then a voice broke through.

“Sergeant Barnes, my name is Phil Coulson, I am a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and you’re currently in a safe S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in New York. It’s 1992, and you are all right. The explosion was accidental and there is no danger.” 

The calm voice repeated these words over and over, until they penetrated the fog of panic that was gripping his mind, and he grappled to them, foreign as they were. Slowly he started coming back, his ears unblocked and _finally_ he could draw a breath. 

“Good job, buddy, keep breathing like that.” He heard Clint say.

“Clint…” he murmured.

“Yeah Barnes?” the archer answered, trying for flippant but obviously relieved to be recognized.

“Next time, I’ll let you try out Stark’s inventions on you own, ok?” Clint smiled.

“Deal, bud.” He said, softly.

James kept his head on his knees for few more minutes, until he felt that he had a firmer grasp on reality. He needed to go home but until he was more stable, he couldn’t get out, he knew that. In the end, he opened his eyes. There was a person he didn’t know, probably the owner of the voice. The man, 27 or 28 years old, in a pristine suit, was kneeling on the floor, he gave him a small smile.

“Thanks.” Barnes rasped out.

“You’re welcome Sergeant. It was no matter.” He answered, and seemed sincere too.

Clint rose on his feet and extended a hand towards James.

“Come on, Jimmie, let’s walk a bit, you know it’s good for your health.” He said. James huffed,

“Don’t call me Jimmie”. He retorted, taking the offered hand with his right and standing slowly. He stopped for a second on bent knees, the left hand skimming the wall as he stood up. The man in front of him raised too and gestured to the two snipers to follow him. The agent – Coulson, he said? – led them in an empty room, where James immediately made a bee-line for a chair, turning his back to a corner of the room with a clean view of door and windows. Now that he was more aware, he managed to keep up the breathing exercises. The agent closed the door and settled on another chair, while Clint stood leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. Feeling that he had already spent enough time recuperating, James decided to look a bit better at the new entry. Mostly bland in appearance, the hairline just slightly receding at the temples, the Agent had an almost seraphic expression that probably hid a much different disposition, curious maybe, or sharp. Whatever it was, it was expertly hidden. Clint cleared his throat then, and got their attention.

“Uhm, uh, right, I didn’t… ok, James Barnes, this is Agent Philip Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil, I don’t think I really have to introduce Jimmie here to you.”

“Don’t call me Jimmie,” was James’ laconic first reaction, accompanied by a sigh. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Coulson, and I guess I have to thank you for your help.” He said, extending his right hand. Phil shook the proffered hand and replied,

“It’s of no matter, Sergeant Barnes. It was my utmost honor.” 

James quirked his eyebrows at the use of ‘Sergeant’, and felt a bit embarrassed.

“Aaaand now,” Clint intervened, “This is my clue to warn you that Phil, here, is a huge Cap and his Howling Commando’s fanboy, so prepare yourself to be drilled.” The archer said with a grin. James looked at him almost frightened and then he fixed his eyes on Phil, who had gotten slightly pink.

“Don’t exaggerate, Barton, you’re scaring Sarge, here. It’s true that I hold in the highest respects Captain America’s and the Howling Commando’s history, and I don’t deny that I would really like to spend some time with you, maybe ask you a couple of questions,” he conceded with a smile, “but I will also respect your need for privacy and recovery. Only, know that there is someone in S.H.I.E.L.D. who will always help you." James’ expression didn’t change much and Clint giggled. He took pity of the former Winter Soldier and clapped his hands together.

“So, How about I bring you home, now, uh, Barnes?” He suggested, kindly, “I bet you could use some rest.” 

James shot him a grateful glance for the escape option.

“Yeah… I don’t really feel at my best right now.” He said. “Agent Coulson, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you: my memory is kind of sketchy, not really the best place to be either, but, uh, I’ll be glad to talk to you sometimes.” He was slightly horrified that Coulson’s expression now resembled that of a boy on Christmas morning.

“Don’t worry, Sarge, the pleasure was mine. And please, call me Phil,” He added.

“Ok. Thank you for your help, Phil.” James added sincerely.

“Anytime.” 

“Ok, come on Jimmie boy, let’s go home. Nat should be back in the evening and we can watch trash TV at your heart content.”  
James let Clint bring him home, where indeed the first thing he did was holing up in his room, writing on the journal the therapist recommended him to keep. He then spent the evening with Natasha and Clint watching bad TV, because sit-coms were a ridiculous new thing he’d grown entirely too fond of. And if that night he let Natasha comb through his hair and calm him down, and if he laughed too loud at Clint’s jokes, well, maybe he needed it, and maybe there wasn’t any shame in taking it, when it was offered. 

In any case, he decided that it was best to avoid explosions as much as possible in the future. And Stark’s toys, too.


End file.
